I just published the third of my short horror ebooks to Amazon's Kindle store this weekend. This one is called "The Monster That Ate My Summer Vacation", and it's the end result of a story idea that had been rattling around in my brain for sometime. It's about a family driving home from a vacation through the high desert. They make the wrong turn. They make the wrong stop. And then, it finds them....
In a weird way, this is kind of a story for my dad because it sort of combines his two favorite genres: horror movies and westerns. Because law enforcement in a western was a job that was much more naked (and, for those of you who've already read it, you'll have to excuse the pun). And, as a result, MUCH more frightening.
Anyway, I don't want to get too much into the sausage-making on this. Please just download and enjoy the steadily increasing insanity.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
August 29, 2011
May 21, 2011
Bright Lights. Big Cities. Pretty Ladies.
In many ways I suppose I'm a recovering professional wrestling fan. Call it yet another Saturday morning habit that I never grew out of. One of my earliest memories with my best friend & future best man was watching him mimic Pedro Morales' convulsions after being thrown out of the ring on his head by Greg "The Hammer" Valentine when we were both about 7 years old. My grandfather was also a huge fan, and one of the ways we bonded was that he would take me with him to the live events at what used to be called the Baltimore Civic Center.
But, of course, Wrestlemania was different. It was always a huge event in some huge venue, and, in the days before pay per view, if you couldn't get a ticket, your only option was to go to some hall where they'd be projecting it on a movie screen in closed circuit TV. So, Granddaddy took me with him to see Wrestlemania IV on the closed circuit, where the main event was a tournament for the WWF World Championship. In the end, the winner, and my favorite to win the night, was The Macho Man, Randy Savage.
The Macho Man died in a car accident yesterday, and the world is definitely poorer for having lost his unique brand of craziness. I was always a fan, and I'll miss him.
But, as I think back to that show, something really awful dawned on me.
Here's the card from that night back in 1988:
* Bad News Brown (DEAD - Heart Attack) won a 20-man battle royal, including the Junkyard Dog (DEAD - Car Accident), Bred Hart, Harley Race, and others
* Don "The Rock" Muraco def. Dino Bravo (DEAD - Gunshot)
* Greg Valentine def. Ricky Steamboat
* One Man Gang def. Bam Bam Bigelow (DEAD - Drugs)
* Ravishing Rick Rude (DEAD - Drugs) fought Jake "The Snake" Roberts to a draw
* The Ultimate Warrior def. Hercules Hernandez (DEAD - Heart Failure)
* Hulk Hogan and Andre the Giant (DEAD - Heart Failure) were both disqualified
* Brutus Beefcake def. The Honkytonk Man by disqualification
* The Islanders, Haku & Tama, and Bobby Heenan def. Koko B. Ware and the British Bulldogs, Davey Boy Smith (DEAD - Heart Attack + Drugs) and The Dynamite Kid (PARALYZED)
* Demolition def. Strike Force
* The Million Dollar Man, Ted Dibiase def. Hacksaw Jim Duggan, then Don Muraco
* The Macho Man, accompanied by Miss Elizabeth (DEAD - Drugs) def. The Natural Butch Reed, Greg Valentine, The One Man Gang, and Ted Dibiase to become the undisputed World Heavyweight Champion
Let's not even get into the long list of wrestler deaths in between (Mr. Perfect, Crash Holly, Eddie Gilbert, Owen Hart, Eddie Guerrero, Chris Benoit, Louie Spiccoli, Rocco Rock, Johnny Grunge, etc.)
There's something terribly wrong when something that's supposed to be fake, pre-determined violence leads to so much death. As much as I enjoyed it, I can't help but wonder did I, as a fan, contribute to many of these deaths by encouraging this insane lifestyle?
It's entirely too sad.
That said, I have a treasure trove of fond memories, both of the shows, and what they meant to my family, so, for that, I am eternally grateful to The Macho Man and his friends.
Thank you, Randy Savage. There will never be another one like you. Rest in peace.
November 11, 2008
For the Vets
Those of you who've seen my short film "5" know that, at the end credits, there's a dedication in honor of my brother and all of the other brave men and women who put on the uniform of the United States military to defend our nation.
Now, I'm far from a jingoist. I do think there's more than a little veracity to Smedley Butler's claims about the relationship between American military activism and the advancement of corporate agendas.
On the other hand, I like to think of myself as an aggressive pacifist. Or, in the words of our new president elect, I'll never throw the first punch, but I'll for damn sure throw the last one.
And, as much distaste as I have for non-fictional violence, I do recognize that sometimes you do have to throw that punch. And, consequently, you need people who are willing and able to throw it.
As my brother so aptly put it, "It's easy to stand on your principles when you aren't responsible for people's lives."
So, today, I want to take a moment to salute not just my brother, recently minted as a major in the U.S. Army Reserves, but to all of my family members - cousins, uncles, even dear old Dad - who've put on the colors.
Happy Veterans Day, gentlemen. You deserve it.
Now, I'm far from a jingoist. I do think there's more than a little veracity to Smedley Butler's claims about the relationship between American military activism and the advancement of corporate agendas.
On the other hand, I like to think of myself as an aggressive pacifist. Or, in the words of our new president elect, I'll never throw the first punch, but I'll for damn sure throw the last one.
And, as much distaste as I have for non-fictional violence, I do recognize that sometimes you do have to throw that punch. And, consequently, you need people who are willing and able to throw it.
As my brother so aptly put it, "It's easy to stand on your principles when you aren't responsible for people's lives."
So, today, I want to take a moment to salute not just my brother, recently minted as a major in the U.S. Army Reserves, but to all of my family members - cousins, uncles, even dear old Dad - who've put on the colors.
Happy Veterans Day, gentlemen. You deserve it.
October 03, 2007
Baltimore Bullet Points
I keep trying to write some elaborately lyric blog post about the last week I've spent here in Baltimore, but, at this rate, I'll never get it done, so, here's my stream-of-consciousness beat sheet for the week:
1. My Uncle Will turned 70 on Saturday, so we threw a surprise party for him back at my family's traditional home: the small rural town of Cambridge, MD, on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. Hence and therefore, the primary reason for the Baltimore leg of this trip.
2. My uncle lives in Milwaukee, as do all 8 of his children (Ernie, James, Don, Al, David, Veronica, Fred Jr., & Wayne), ranging in age from ~49 to 37, as well as the majority of his 17 grandchildren. And, of his 8, #6 is the only girl. Of his 7 sons, 4 are ex-Marines, one is ex-Air Force, two are currently cops, and one is in and out of jail a lot. Point being, there's a lot of beef over there.
3. So, if you're trying to throw a surprise party, where the guest of honor and most of the attendees are all coming from out of town, maybe you shouldn't book everybody in the same hotel. Just a thought. My cousins demonstrated their quick wits by inventing increasingly elaborate explanations for why they just happen to be in Maryland, in the SAME FREAKIN' HOTEL, when my uncle would run into them in, say, the elevator, or the front lobby, or in the hallway because THEY GOT THE ROOM RIGHT NEXT DOOR.
4. In the end, he was still surprised. Go figure.
5. I considered having a bit of mercy on my brother for forgetting my birthday. After all, since his return from Iraq, he's had to get bifocals because of the strain on his eyes from looking through the sight on a 50-caliber machine gun turret for the better part of a year. He says he fell down the stairs once because he misjudged the distance to his feet. His new car is a stick shift, and he hasn't driven stick in years. My sister-in-law says she doesn't want to ride shotgun with him anymore because she's afraid she'll get a concussion from all the gear stripping. As I said, I considered mercy.... but thought better of it. :-) His response to me was, "just wait - you'll be old some day." My response? "Yes, but I will never, EVER be as old a you." Life does have it's little pleasures.
6. After all the DAY Day festivities, I thought I'd take it easy on the food while I'm home. Not like I can just run to Trader Joes and get something healthy and/or organic here in Baltimore. That was, of course, before I had my first piece of authentic Eastern Shore fried chicken at the surprise party. And some homemade iced tea that literally made me do a double take.
7. Said party was the first time in nearly 30 years that all 12 of my grandmother's grandchildren (Uncle Will's 8, me and my brother, and my aunt's two daughters) were in the same room together. We got pictures.
My cousin Wayne made the point of reminding me that I'd never been to Milwaukee on my own, just to visit. Commence shame. This is, after all, practically half of my family, from a pure numbers perspective. Point being, I'm going next spring.
8. Whenever he comes to Maryland, my cousin David buys at least one box of TastyKakes to take back to Milwaukee, since apparently they, much like Utz Potato Chips, are strictly a mid-Atlantic thing. I'm going to have to introduce that brother to www.tastykake.com. I didn't even remember what TastyKakes looked like. Since Saturday, I've had two. They're big. I'm ordering when I get home. :-)
9. The Milwaukee entourage followed us to church the following Sunday. To put it bluntly, me & God are Kool and the Gang, but me and church? Eh, not so much. However, whatever issues I may have with the institution, that particular church is just an extension of my home and my family. And, after finally getting rid of the former moon-bat-crazy pastor (i.e. the one my mother basically had to perform an exorcism on in the middle of Sunday service to calm down after she had a hysteria attack - I kid you not. Favorite quote - "Jessica, go get the oil!!!"), I wanted to lay eyes on the new guy. Newsflash - he's not moon-bat-crazy. He's actually kind of fun.
10. Of course, things broke down when my cousin Ernie passed out in the middle of service. Short version: dude had just had surgery to replace BOTH knees at the same time and apparently lost a lot of blood on the operating table. He's blacked out from the pain 6 times in the last three months. And, when my cousin from my MOTHER'S side of the family who's a doctor offered her help, he:
a) refused to get into a wheel chair, insisting on walking out of the sanctuary
b) refused Advil or any kind of pain medication, and
c) refused ice to numb his swollen knees, opting instead to roll up his pants legs and splash two cups of fountain water over his surgery scars.
And then lit up a cigarette. Go figure.
11. OK, so, Mom & Dad took us all to the Country Buffet on Friday, and then we had the surprise party/dinner on Sunday. But the REAL eating didn't begin until Sunday afternoon, when the whole lot of us (that is, those who didn't have to go back to work like Wayne, or escape to Ocean City like Al & Fred. Jr.) went to the Windsor Inn Crab House. Now, those of you who aren't from Maryland probably don't understand how much of a sacrament crabs are back here in the old Line State. We had to separate the party into the crab eaters' tables and the non-crab eaters' table. They cover the crab tables with heavy paper, and bring out a set of buckets and little wooden hammers. Oh, and plastic bibs. And then the waitress brings an entire tray stacked to the ceiling with crabs smothered in Old Bay seasoning and dumps them in a pile on the table. And then, it's just on. My brother claims that he prefers crabcakes because he's not interested in cracking open crab shells to fish out the meat. I say he's just a lazy bum who doesn't appreciate the satisfaction of the work involved. It's a singular experience. By the time I'm done, my fingers are literally tingling from the Old Bay. Oh, and the dinner is all-you-can-eat crabs, along with corn on the cob and buffalo wings (the mentioning of which made my niece squeal like she'd just seen Elvis). One of my cousins' young sons, unskilled in the crabbing ways, sounded like he was building a freakin' house the way he was beating the crab shells with the hammers. When it was all said & done, three trays of crabs later, my aunt ate the rest of us under the table. When she left the restaurant to get a snowball for her drive back to D.C., the girl at the counter remarked that she could smell crabs. It was glorious.
12. After the Milkwaukee crowd left town, we spent Labor Day at a BBQ at my mother's sister's house. If my father's family is big & loud & boisterous, my mother's family are just laid back & chatty. More food: bratwursts and deep fried chicken and potato salad and god knows what else. No wonder everybody is, shall we say, "healthier" than I remember. The food is too damn tasty and there's too damn much of it. Anyway, the conversation turns political, then existential (my territory) and goes until 1AM.
14. On Thursday, Mom starts reaching down deep to pull out all the stops in the kitchen. This time, homemade Cod Fish Cakes!!! The boy is in heaven. And there's the promise of homemade Crab Cakes for a big Sunday dinner.
I've got to say, I didn't fully appreciate the term "comfort food" until this trip. Something about being home, where it's nice and green from all the trees everywhere (unlike L.A.), surrounded with ALL of my family, and just indulging in food I haven't really had in this quantity & quality since I was a kid, it's just feeding my soul. It's fired my creativity.
I don't think I fully realized how exhausted I was from the summer and, perhaps, just life in general, until I laid in this little twin bed in what used to be our room but is now so clearly my mother's office, and consistently slept past my alarm clock every single day I've been here.
And, no, most of my family is not where I am, spiritually or emotionally. I do things and live a life that most of them don't understand. And yet, they are still my family. And, for all their faults and foibles, I love each and every one of them with all my heart.
In short, you CAN (and probably SHOULD) go home again.
15. So, my grandmother lost the lower half of her right leg to diabetes a few years ago. A grim reminder of the consequences of a life lived ONLY on down home black comfort food. My father, ostensibly retired, is her full time caretaker here in their house. But, he has a nurse come in twice a day to give him a hand, particularly for getting her into and out of bed every day. Dad, ex-Army, is a hard taskmaster of a boss, and has gone through easily half a dozen of these girls over the years. But the current one has finally met his approval and has lasted for at least the last year. She's Nigerian, and, when she heard that I wasn't married, she said to Dad, "Oh, your son can marry my sister!"
It may be just about time to go. :-)
1. My Uncle Will turned 70 on Saturday, so we threw a surprise party for him back at my family's traditional home: the small rural town of Cambridge, MD, on the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay. Hence and therefore, the primary reason for the Baltimore leg of this trip.
2. My uncle lives in Milwaukee, as do all 8 of his children (Ernie, James, Don, Al, David, Veronica, Fred Jr., & Wayne), ranging in age from ~49 to 37, as well as the majority of his 17 grandchildren. And, of his 8, #6 is the only girl. Of his 7 sons, 4 are ex-Marines, one is ex-Air Force, two are currently cops, and one is in and out of jail a lot. Point being, there's a lot of beef over there.
3. So, if you're trying to throw a surprise party, where the guest of honor and most of the attendees are all coming from out of town, maybe you shouldn't book everybody in the same hotel. Just a thought. My cousins demonstrated their quick wits by inventing increasingly elaborate explanations for why they just happen to be in Maryland, in the SAME FREAKIN' HOTEL, when my uncle would run into them in, say, the elevator, or the front lobby, or in the hallway because THEY GOT THE ROOM RIGHT NEXT DOOR.
4. In the end, he was still surprised. Go figure.
5. I considered having a bit of mercy on my brother for forgetting my birthday. After all, since his return from Iraq, he's had to get bifocals because of the strain on his eyes from looking through the sight on a 50-caliber machine gun turret for the better part of a year. He says he fell down the stairs once because he misjudged the distance to his feet. His new car is a stick shift, and he hasn't driven stick in years. My sister-in-law says she doesn't want to ride shotgun with him anymore because she's afraid she'll get a concussion from all the gear stripping. As I said, I considered mercy.... but thought better of it. :-) His response to me was, "just wait - you'll be old some day." My response? "Yes, but I will never, EVER be as old a you." Life does have it's little pleasures.
6. After all the DAY Day festivities, I thought I'd take it easy on the food while I'm home. Not like I can just run to Trader Joes and get something healthy and/or organic here in Baltimore. That was, of course, before I had my first piece of authentic Eastern Shore fried chicken at the surprise party. And some homemade iced tea that literally made me do a double take.
7. Said party was the first time in nearly 30 years that all 12 of my grandmother's grandchildren (Uncle Will's 8, me and my brother, and my aunt's two daughters) were in the same room together. We got pictures.
My cousin Wayne made the point of reminding me that I'd never been to Milwaukee on my own, just to visit. Commence shame. This is, after all, practically half of my family, from a pure numbers perspective. Point being, I'm going next spring.
8. Whenever he comes to Maryland, my cousin David buys at least one box of TastyKakes to take back to Milwaukee, since apparently they, much like Utz Potato Chips, are strictly a mid-Atlantic thing. I'm going to have to introduce that brother to www.tastykake.com. I didn't even remember what TastyKakes looked like. Since Saturday, I've had two. They're big. I'm ordering when I get home. :-)
9. The Milwaukee entourage followed us to church the following Sunday. To put it bluntly, me & God are Kool and the Gang, but me and church? Eh, not so much. However, whatever issues I may have with the institution, that particular church is just an extension of my home and my family. And, after finally getting rid of the former moon-bat-crazy pastor (i.e. the one my mother basically had to perform an exorcism on in the middle of Sunday service to calm down after she had a hysteria attack - I kid you not. Favorite quote - "Jessica, go get the oil!!!"), I wanted to lay eyes on the new guy. Newsflash - he's not moon-bat-crazy. He's actually kind of fun.
10. Of course, things broke down when my cousin Ernie passed out in the middle of service. Short version: dude had just had surgery to replace BOTH knees at the same time and apparently lost a lot of blood on the operating table. He's blacked out from the pain 6 times in the last three months. And, when my cousin from my MOTHER'S side of the family who's a doctor offered her help, he:
a) refused to get into a wheel chair, insisting on walking out of the sanctuary
b) refused Advil or any kind of pain medication, and
c) refused ice to numb his swollen knees, opting instead to roll up his pants legs and splash two cups of fountain water over his surgery scars.
And then lit up a cigarette. Go figure.
11. OK, so, Mom & Dad took us all to the Country Buffet on Friday, and then we had the surprise party/dinner on Sunday. But the REAL eating didn't begin until Sunday afternoon, when the whole lot of us (that is, those who didn't have to go back to work like Wayne, or escape to Ocean City like Al & Fred. Jr.) went to the Windsor Inn Crab House. Now, those of you who aren't from Maryland probably don't understand how much of a sacrament crabs are back here in the old Line State. We had to separate the party into the crab eaters' tables and the non-crab eaters' table. They cover the crab tables with heavy paper, and bring out a set of buckets and little wooden hammers. Oh, and plastic bibs. And then the waitress brings an entire tray stacked to the ceiling with crabs smothered in Old Bay seasoning and dumps them in a pile on the table. And then, it's just on. My brother claims that he prefers crabcakes because he's not interested in cracking open crab shells to fish out the meat. I say he's just a lazy bum who doesn't appreciate the satisfaction of the work involved. It's a singular experience. By the time I'm done, my fingers are literally tingling from the Old Bay. Oh, and the dinner is all-you-can-eat crabs, along with corn on the cob and buffalo wings (the mentioning of which made my niece squeal like she'd just seen Elvis). One of my cousins' young sons, unskilled in the crabbing ways, sounded like he was building a freakin' house the way he was beating the crab shells with the hammers. When it was all said & done, three trays of crabs later, my aunt ate the rest of us under the table. When she left the restaurant to get a snowball for her drive back to D.C., the girl at the counter remarked that she could smell crabs. It was glorious.
12. After the Milkwaukee crowd left town, we spent Labor Day at a BBQ at my mother's sister's house. If my father's family is big & loud & boisterous, my mother's family are just laid back & chatty. More food: bratwursts and deep fried chicken and potato salad and god knows what else. No wonder everybody is, shall we say, "healthier" than I remember. The food is too damn tasty and there's too damn much of it. Anyway, the conversation turns political, then existential (my territory) and goes until 1AM.
14. On Thursday, Mom starts reaching down deep to pull out all the stops in the kitchen. This time, homemade Cod Fish Cakes!!! The boy is in heaven. And there's the promise of homemade Crab Cakes for a big Sunday dinner.
I've got to say, I didn't fully appreciate the term "comfort food" until this trip. Something about being home, where it's nice and green from all the trees everywhere (unlike L.A.), surrounded with ALL of my family, and just indulging in food I haven't really had in this quantity & quality since I was a kid, it's just feeding my soul. It's fired my creativity.
I don't think I fully realized how exhausted I was from the summer and, perhaps, just life in general, until I laid in this little twin bed in what used to be our room but is now so clearly my mother's office, and consistently slept past my alarm clock every single day I've been here.
And, no, most of my family is not where I am, spiritually or emotionally. I do things and live a life that most of them don't understand. And yet, they are still my family. And, for all their faults and foibles, I love each and every one of them with all my heart.
In short, you CAN (and probably SHOULD) go home again.
15. So, my grandmother lost the lower half of her right leg to diabetes a few years ago. A grim reminder of the consequences of a life lived ONLY on down home black comfort food. My father, ostensibly retired, is her full time caretaker here in their house. But, he has a nurse come in twice a day to give him a hand, particularly for getting her into and out of bed every day. Dad, ex-Army, is a hard taskmaster of a boss, and has gone through easily half a dozen of these girls over the years. But the current one has finally met his approval and has lasted for at least the last year. She's Nigerian, and, when she heard that I wasn't married, she said to Dad, "Oh, your son can marry my sister!"
It may be just about time to go. :-)
April 10, 2006
April Showers
I distinctly recall, as a child, crying in the fellowship hall of my church during some event. Honestly, I don't even remember what I was crying about or how old I was.
But the thing I remember the most was that my father eventually saw me and said "you'd better cut that mess out".
Dad's an old school man.
I don't think I ever remember seeing my father cry. In fact, the only instance where I can recall even HEARING about Dad shedding a tear was for his 60th birthday. My mother decided to treat him to a trip to New York City, where they'd spend some time with me, before reaching Dad's final destination in Atlantic City. He had no idea that, after they'd gotten home from Atlantic City, there would be a surprise party waiting for him.
That trip was the first and only time my father ever stayed in my apartment in New Jersey, and, since he's a bit of a neat freak, I'd been cleaning for the better part of a week. Even bought new linen. Of course, the first thing he did when he arrived was check the bed sheets. From the corner of my eye, I caught him nodding his approval of the bed to my mother. Mission accomplished.
I took them to the Christmas Spectacular at Rockefeller Center before treating them to dinner at the Motown Cafe.
That night, one day removed from gambling to his heart's content and two days before being unexpectedly surrounded by all of the people he loves, Dad turned to me and said "this is the best birthday I've ever had."
Two days later, he quietly, bashfully, wept tears of joy.
And my older brother wasting no time in making fun of him for crying like a baby.
Two years later, Dad got to return the favor when the family threw a surprise party for my brother's 40th birthday.
The men in my family tend not to be all that in touch with their feelings.
I suppose I'm one of the exceptions.
I cried at the end of Star Trek II when Spock died. I was nine. I mean, I cried from the movie theater, all the way home, and all through dinner, until Dad pulled me aside, sat me down on the couch, put an arm around me, and said "I'm sure Mr. Spock will be alright."
Crying over sad things is easy. However, having gone to an all-boy's private school, you quickly learn to set aside that instinct. I became really good at sitting on my feelings. Or being angry & vindictive.
I suppose that school was it's own sort of boot camp.
The Army was Dad's dream.
He told me that over lunch in a mall food court a few years ago. Growing up as the middle child in a tiny rural town on Maryland's Eastern Shore, I'm sure the Army represented a lot of things - the chance to see the world, be a hero, serve your country, get the Hell out of your mother's house, etc.
He said that all he ever wanted to do was retire after 20 years of dedicated service to Uncle Sam.
Those kinds of things are easy to say when you're 17 and fresh out of high school.
But when you're 25 and married with a small child, priorities change. Especially if your young wife desperately misses her family and hates traveling.
Dad was honorably discharged after 7 years, but not before my older brother was born & raised on various Army bases for the first three years of his life.
Many of you regular Macroscope readers, I'm sure, are well aware of how vastly different my big brother & I are politically.
By trade & training, I'm an engineer.
He's a lawyer.
In my heart of hearts, I'm a storyteller.
He's a soldier.
Mom tells me that, as a toddler, my brother would look out the window at the soldiers marching past in formation and say "there goes Daddy".
The military is deep in my family marrow. Again, I'm the exception. The closest I came to wearing a uniform was being a Boy Scout.
But my brother is another story.
On my side of our room was a poster of Spider-Man.
On his side of the room was this:
One of his most prized possessions was a Time/Life collection of World War II indexed history cards. He moved well beyond board games like Battleship and Stratego, graduating to hardcore war strategy games with names like "Tactics II" that didn't even bother with toy soldier game pieces anymore.
The army is a part of who he is. The day I graduated from high school, my brother showed up at the ceremony in combat fatigues because he'd just finished with his reserve duty that day. Most of the family portraits I have show him in uniform.
My brother's dream was to be a fighter pilot. But he was weeded out of Air Force ROTC through some, frankly, racist maneuvering. Similar circumstances kept him out of combat helicopter school. Nonetheless, he stuck with it, eventually earning the rank of Captain, working primarily in convoys, transportation, etc.
Not what he wanted. But he still loved it.
His unit got to March in Bush's inaugural parade, and, in his worlds, he even got to see the new Commander-in-Chief.
I could hear how excited he was, even though I was thoroughly convinced that his adoration was, shall we say, misguided, at best.
I remember talking with him in the summer of 2002, just after he'd done his reserve tour for the year in Germany. They were already doing war games & training for an anticipated war in Iraq. I asked him "so what do you think?"
He just shook his head in resignation and said "We're gonna need a lot of guys."
As fate would have it, for some reason, he was unable to get the promotion he wanted to Major and was, therefore, honorably discharged in February 2003 - one month before the President ordered the invasion of Iraq.
And we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Most of us, that is.
Because, even though my brother was now out of harm's way, he was also no longer a soldier. He'd been discharged after 16 years in the Army reserves - four years short of retirement and all the commensurate benefits.
My father was disappointed.
My brother was quietly devastated.
I recently watched "Patton" for the first time.
A great movie, by the way - well worth it. Patton, as played by George C. Scott, believes himself to be the reincarnation of Hannibal and a host of other great military generals from eras past. He lives and breathes to fight. But, in the course of the war, his excessive disciplinary tactics cause him to fall out of favor and he's subsequently removed from the field of battle by his superiors. His response?
My brother's been trying to get his Army commission re-instated ever since.
And, despite his age, and an old knee injury, and slightly high blood pressure, and one kid in college and another soon to go, despite his belief that Robert MacNamara should, in his words, "burn in Hell" for his conduct of the Vietnam war and that Donald Rumsfeld should be immediately fired for his conduct of THIS war, he finally succeeded.
My brother was re-activated as a Captain in the Army reserves in February.
And, when I called him on his birthday last month, he told me that, earlier that day, the Army had called him up for active duty.
He's shipping out today. And, after spending a month in his birthplace, Fort Hood, TX, for additional training, his unit will be shipping off to Iraq.
Baghdad, to be exact.
For a year.
They'll be training Iraqis to manage military truck convoys.
I can remember a conversation I had with my father a few months ago, where I said that I felt that my brother was being tremendously irresponsible. He's a family man, after all, volunteering to walk into a killing zone.
But, then again, on a smaller scale, the same charge of being irresponsible could have been levied against me.
I remembered the day I left the east coast, and my outrageously high paying tech job during the height of the internet boom, to come out to California for film school. I'd packed up my apartment in New Jersey the day before, and I was back in Baltimore, looking for a battery for my watch with my Dad. And, as I was laying out all of the things I still needed to do once I got to L.A., Dad just stopped me.
He said "You really want to do this, huh?"
I said "Yeah".
He looked at me hard and asked "Really?"
I still said "yes".
Dad just shook his head and said he would support me in any way that he could, even though he didn't understand it. He said "if I were you, I would really have to think long and hard about the money I was leaving behind."
And I sort of bristled at that. I'm not a stupid person. And this was not a decision I was making lightly. I'd been considering, and planning this move, or something like it, for years. Then, when I was still young and single and childless, was the supremely responsible time to do it.
And, more importantly, it was the truth.
It was who I am.
I am a storyteller.
I have to be in the place where the stories get told to tell the stories to the most people. I HAD to leave.
I would die if I didn't go.
Ironically enough, the day I left for California, my brother volunteered to come with me to help me move in. We rode a train from D.C. to L.A. for four days and sat on the floor of my empty apartment watching Jerry Springer on his Sony Watchman for a week.
My brother is, also, not a stupid person. He's been planning this for years. His whole life has been pointing to this moment. He's constructed things in such a way that, not only is his Army pay a significant, tax-free raise over his regular salary, but, because he has such a ridiculous amount of vacation time saved, he'll actually still be on the payroll for the first 2-3 months that he's on active duty. Debts will be paid. Tuition will be paid. His job will still be here.
I am a storyteller.
My brother's a soldier.
This is who he is. He'd die if he didn't go.
It's the truth.
Yesterday, my family had a bon voyage party for him. And, unfortunately, because it all happened so fast, I couldn't be there. We finally tracked each other down by phone while my girlfriend & I were in the local esoteric bookshop.
I asked him how he felt, and he paraphrased Steve Buscemi from Armageddon:
And I had to call his house and leave him a message to tell him that I loved him.
We don't really say those sort of things face-to-face. Even by phone.
And I went back into the bookstore, found my girlfriend, and cried.
I felt like I'd just said "good bye", I mean, REALLY good-bye, to my brother.
And my girlfriend asked me if that's what I wanted.
Of course not! What the Hell kind of question is that?!?
And then she reminded me that we always have a choice. Even on how we feel.
Is there any wonder that I absolutely love this woman?
So, instead, I choose to see him safe, sound, living the life he was destined for, and being transformed by it.
And I see me giving him the biggest hug he's ever had when he steps back onto American soil, all smiles and all in one piece.
But, to make a long story short, I cried.
I guess that's why I'm a storyteller.
Please keep my favorite Army Captain in your prayers. And see him home, safe and sound.
Thanks.
But the thing I remember the most was that my father eventually saw me and said "you'd better cut that mess out".
Dad's an old school man.
I don't think I ever remember seeing my father cry. In fact, the only instance where I can recall even HEARING about Dad shedding a tear was for his 60th birthday. My mother decided to treat him to a trip to New York City, where they'd spend some time with me, before reaching Dad's final destination in Atlantic City. He had no idea that, after they'd gotten home from Atlantic City, there would be a surprise party waiting for him.
That trip was the first and only time my father ever stayed in my apartment in New Jersey, and, since he's a bit of a neat freak, I'd been cleaning for the better part of a week. Even bought new linen. Of course, the first thing he did when he arrived was check the bed sheets. From the corner of my eye, I caught him nodding his approval of the bed to my mother. Mission accomplished.
I took them to the Christmas Spectacular at Rockefeller Center before treating them to dinner at the Motown Cafe.
That night, one day removed from gambling to his heart's content and two days before being unexpectedly surrounded by all of the people he loves, Dad turned to me and said "this is the best birthday I've ever had."
Two days later, he quietly, bashfully, wept tears of joy.
And my older brother wasting no time in making fun of him for crying like a baby.
Two years later, Dad got to return the favor when the family threw a surprise party for my brother's 40th birthday.
The men in my family tend not to be all that in touch with their feelings.
I suppose I'm one of the exceptions.
I cried at the end of Star Trek II when Spock died. I was nine. I mean, I cried from the movie theater, all the way home, and all through dinner, until Dad pulled me aside, sat me down on the couch, put an arm around me, and said "I'm sure Mr. Spock will be alright."
Crying over sad things is easy. However, having gone to an all-boy's private school, you quickly learn to set aside that instinct. I became really good at sitting on my feelings. Or being angry & vindictive.
I suppose that school was it's own sort of boot camp.
The Army was Dad's dream.
He told me that over lunch in a mall food court a few years ago. Growing up as the middle child in a tiny rural town on Maryland's Eastern Shore, I'm sure the Army represented a lot of things - the chance to see the world, be a hero, serve your country, get the Hell out of your mother's house, etc.
He said that all he ever wanted to do was retire after 20 years of dedicated service to Uncle Sam.
Those kinds of things are easy to say when you're 17 and fresh out of high school.
But when you're 25 and married with a small child, priorities change. Especially if your young wife desperately misses her family and hates traveling.
Dad was honorably discharged after 7 years, but not before my older brother was born & raised on various Army bases for the first three years of his life.
Many of you regular Macroscope readers, I'm sure, are well aware of how vastly different my big brother & I are politically.
By trade & training, I'm an engineer.
He's a lawyer.
In my heart of hearts, I'm a storyteller.
He's a soldier.
Mom tells me that, as a toddler, my brother would look out the window at the soldiers marching past in formation and say "there goes Daddy".
The military is deep in my family marrow. Again, I'm the exception. The closest I came to wearing a uniform was being a Boy Scout.
But my brother is another story.
On my side of our room was a poster of Spider-Man.
On his side of the room was this:
One of his most prized possessions was a Time/Life collection of World War II indexed history cards. He moved well beyond board games like Battleship and Stratego, graduating to hardcore war strategy games with names like "Tactics II" that didn't even bother with toy soldier game pieces anymore.
The army is a part of who he is. The day I graduated from high school, my brother showed up at the ceremony in combat fatigues because he'd just finished with his reserve duty that day. Most of the family portraits I have show him in uniform.
My brother's dream was to be a fighter pilot. But he was weeded out of Air Force ROTC through some, frankly, racist maneuvering. Similar circumstances kept him out of combat helicopter school. Nonetheless, he stuck with it, eventually earning the rank of Captain, working primarily in convoys, transportation, etc.
Not what he wanted. But he still loved it.
His unit got to March in Bush's inaugural parade, and, in his worlds, he even got to see the new Commander-in-Chief.
I could hear how excited he was, even though I was thoroughly convinced that his adoration was, shall we say, misguided, at best.
I remember talking with him in the summer of 2002, just after he'd done his reserve tour for the year in Germany. They were already doing war games & training for an anticipated war in Iraq. I asked him "so what do you think?"
He just shook his head in resignation and said "We're gonna need a lot of guys."
As fate would have it, for some reason, he was unable to get the promotion he wanted to Major and was, therefore, honorably discharged in February 2003 - one month before the President ordered the invasion of Iraq.
And we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Most of us, that is.
Because, even though my brother was now out of harm's way, he was also no longer a soldier. He'd been discharged after 16 years in the Army reserves - four years short of retirement and all the commensurate benefits.
My father was disappointed.
My brother was quietly devastated.
I recently watched "Patton" for the first time.
A great movie, by the way - well worth it. Patton, as played by George C. Scott, believes himself to be the reincarnation of Hannibal and a host of other great military generals from eras past. He lives and breathes to fight. But, in the course of the war, his excessive disciplinary tactics cause him to fall out of favor and he's subsequently removed from the field of battle by his superiors. His response?
"The last great opportunity of a lifetime - an entire world at war and I'm left out of it? God will not permit this to happen - I will be allowed to fulfill my destiny. His will be done."
My brother's been trying to get his Army commission re-instated ever since.
And, despite his age, and an old knee injury, and slightly high blood pressure, and one kid in college and another soon to go, despite his belief that Robert MacNamara should, in his words, "burn in Hell" for his conduct of the Vietnam war and that Donald Rumsfeld should be immediately fired for his conduct of THIS war, he finally succeeded.
My brother was re-activated as a Captain in the Army reserves in February.
And, when I called him on his birthday last month, he told me that, earlier that day, the Army had called him up for active duty.
He's shipping out today. And, after spending a month in his birthplace, Fort Hood, TX, for additional training, his unit will be shipping off to Iraq.
Baghdad, to be exact.
For a year.
They'll be training Iraqis to manage military truck convoys.
I can remember a conversation I had with my father a few months ago, where I said that I felt that my brother was being tremendously irresponsible. He's a family man, after all, volunteering to walk into a killing zone.
But, then again, on a smaller scale, the same charge of being irresponsible could have been levied against me.
I remembered the day I left the east coast, and my outrageously high paying tech job during the height of the internet boom, to come out to California for film school. I'd packed up my apartment in New Jersey the day before, and I was back in Baltimore, looking for a battery for my watch with my Dad. And, as I was laying out all of the things I still needed to do once I got to L.A., Dad just stopped me.
He said "You really want to do this, huh?"
I said "Yeah".
He looked at me hard and asked "Really?"
I still said "yes".
Dad just shook his head and said he would support me in any way that he could, even though he didn't understand it. He said "if I were you, I would really have to think long and hard about the money I was leaving behind."
And I sort of bristled at that. I'm not a stupid person. And this was not a decision I was making lightly. I'd been considering, and planning this move, or something like it, for years. Then, when I was still young and single and childless, was the supremely responsible time to do it.
And, more importantly, it was the truth.
It was who I am.
I am a storyteller.
I have to be in the place where the stories get told to tell the stories to the most people. I HAD to leave.
I would die if I didn't go.
Ironically enough, the day I left for California, my brother volunteered to come with me to help me move in. We rode a train from D.C. to L.A. for four days and sat on the floor of my empty apartment watching Jerry Springer on his Sony Watchman for a week.
My brother is, also, not a stupid person. He's been planning this for years. His whole life has been pointing to this moment. He's constructed things in such a way that, not only is his Army pay a significant, tax-free raise over his regular salary, but, because he has such a ridiculous amount of vacation time saved, he'll actually still be on the payroll for the first 2-3 months that he's on active duty. Debts will be paid. Tuition will be paid. His job will still be here.
I am a storyteller.
My brother's a soldier.
This is who he is. He'd die if he didn't go.
It's the truth.
Yesterday, my family had a bon voyage party for him. And, unfortunately, because it all happened so fast, I couldn't be there. We finally tracked each other down by phone while my girlfriend & I were in the local esoteric bookshop.
I asked him how he felt, and he paraphrased Steve Buscemi from Armageddon:
"I'm feeling a mixture of excitement and terror, and I'm not sure which one I feel more."He told me he'd be e-mailing me instructions in case something "unfortunate" happens, because he trusts me to be more clear-headed than Mom or Dad in that instance. I told him I knew he'd make us proud. And, since he was using my cousin's phone and didn't want to use up his minutes, we said our good-byes.
And I had to call his house and leave him a message to tell him that I loved him.
We don't really say those sort of things face-to-face. Even by phone.
And I went back into the bookstore, found my girlfriend, and cried.
I felt like I'd just said "good bye", I mean, REALLY good-bye, to my brother.
And my girlfriend asked me if that's what I wanted.
Of course not! What the Hell kind of question is that?!?
And then she reminded me that we always have a choice. Even on how we feel.
Is there any wonder that I absolutely love this woman?
So, instead, I choose to see him safe, sound, living the life he was destined for, and being transformed by it.
And I see me giving him the biggest hug he's ever had when he steps back onto American soil, all smiles and all in one piece.
But, to make a long story short, I cried.
I guess that's why I'm a storyteller.
Please keep my favorite Army Captain in your prayers. And see him home, safe and sound.
Thanks.
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